


Measure of Grace

by Shayheyred



Category: Big Valley
Genre: Child Abuse, Civil War, Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 19:36:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayheyred/pseuds/Shayheyred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is it that makes a man who he is?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Measure of Grace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lukoni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lukoni/gifts).



> Thanks to my sharp-eyed beta Beth, who was picky in all the right places.

_March 23, 1896_

"—and a pillar of the community, a member of one of the state's – no, I dare say, the entire West's, most influential families. It is no wonder that he has, in his years on the bench, presided over some of the most difficult and controversial cases ever to be seen in California. And yet he's never lost his equanimity, his fierce determination to serve the law, no matter what others may think. He is a paragon of balance, of measured judgment and care, never losing his calm demeanor, never turning a hair in his quest for justice—"

Jarrod Barkley shifted uneasily in his seat. Governor Budd was a friend, but he'd never expected him to use such exalted language. To be called a paragon…! Acutely uncomfortable, he scratched at a temple and plucked at the crease in his trousers before shifting again and turning his gaze to the audience. From his chair on the podium he could see his family seated in the front row; how he wished he were with them and out of the view of the spectators, away from the words of praise that fell so hollowly on his ears.

From what he could see, his family could not help but behave as they always did, even on this formal occasion. Nick was being his usual rowdy self, elbowing Heath in the ribs, no doubt sharing some private jest. Mother raised a thin white hand and poked Nick with a finger, narrowing her eyes at him, and Nick folded his arms and looked heavenward in response. Hearing the Governor heap praise upon him made Jarrod exceedingly discomfited, but for a moment he couldn't help but smile. Mother was aging, but she was still in charge.

On the other side of Mother sat Audra, who had settled into a mature beauty, happily married and living in San Francisco. Robert hadn't been able to make the festivities, but Audra had brought their twins, girls of eight years old who mirrored their mother's golden beauty. Heath and Jenny had their arms around each other as if they were still newlyweds, even after all these years. Mother was – well, she was Victoria Barkley, a force to be reckoned with. As for Nick, he was headed right into being a grizzled old codger, still contentious, still hot-headed. He looked as uncomfortable as Jarrod felt—clearly both of them would rather be anywhere than where they were right now. Only Eugene had not come, for he was somewhere in Africa doctoring to people with desperate needs, but even he had managed a brief letter of congratulations which had arrived remarkably on time this very morning. And there—Jarrod caught the eye of his wife, who smiled back, crinkling her eyes into the little laugh lines he loved so much. She cast a tolerant eye on his family's antics, and turned his way again, mouthing something at him, three words that he could easily interpret. _I love you too,_ Jarrod thought. If only this day were over. The Governor had no idea! If only he would cease this laudatory oration. It was torture to hear such words and be so unworthy of them.

"—and most of all, calm and measured in his decisions. A champion of justice, someone who respects the law and is ardent in his defense of it, but one who has never defied it. He is a man who has always done what needed to be done. Those of us who call Stockton our home knew years ago that Jarrod Barkley was going places. And now he's leaving us…but to the benefit of others. Our great state of California is gaining our native son, and he will continue to serve us with his measured grace. To paraphrase the Good Book, 'He is our rock, He is our defense; He shall not be moved.' Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Senator Jarrod Barkley!"

* * *

_December 4, 1863_

Mother was seated on the davenport by the fire, a book in her hand, Audra at her feet dressing and re-dressing her doll. Nick chased Gene around and around the dining table where Jarrod studied, the two of them shooting imaginary guns in a game of "Reb and Yankee." And there was father, a glass of whiskey in his hand, the newspaper open in his lap to news of the war, turning in his well-worn leather chair to shout, "You boys cease that right now, before I have to use my crop on you!" Jarrod tensed, the words on the page swimming before his eyes. Father and his leather riding crop, ever threatening. He knew better than to displease Father.

Gene, too, had caught the edge in Father's voice and uncertainty brought him to a halt. But Nick had never learned that lesson, and so he continued to whoop and shout "I'll git you, Yankee!" at his brother. Tom Barkley came off the chair suddenly, his big arm around Nick, and was dragging him out of the drawing room and through the front door before Nick could react.

"Tom—" Mother's call faded into silence. She'd stood, staring uneasily as her husband grabbed her middle son and pulled him out of the house. Audra seemed not to notice the change in atmosphere. But in the dining room, Gene had frozen in place, his eyes on the front door. And Jarrod—

He would have stayed where he was, certainly he would've, and tried to focus again on his schoolwork, but then there was that sound, that plaintive wail coming from the direction of the stables, followed by the cries, and he couldn't stand it, the sound of Nick – tough, strong and flippant Nick – _crying._ Jarrod's hand was on the doorknob before he actually thought about it, and the door was opening and he was vaulting down the porch steps, hearing the desperation in Mother's voice as she called his name, but not really listening, not while that pained, despairing sobbing filled his ears.

He could hear another sound, too, as he covered the distance to the stables, the sound of the crop slicing the air and the solid thump of rigid leather against a body. The stable door was open, and he saw the two of them there, but by now Jarrod wasn't really seeing things clearly, so filled with fury was his vision.

"—behave the way I tell you!" Father wasn't yelling; no, his voice was that terrifyingly icy whisper they all knew and feared. Jarrod saw Nick slumped over bales of hay, hands clutching at nothing, tears streaming down his face, his head straining back and his breath coming in labored white gusts as Father brought the riding crop down again and again. "Damn you! You'll do as I say or I'll beat the disobedience out of you!"

Father's own breath was steaming like a bull's in the freezing stable, the smell of whiskey souring the air. His arm came down again, but this time Nick didn't cry out, because Jarrod's hands were wrapped around the crop, and he was wrenching it away with all the strength his body could muster. It took less muscle than he'd expected because he'd taken Father by surprise. 

"Jarrod! What the hell you think you're doing?" There was shock in Father's voice. He made a grab for the crop, and Father was tall and broad and angry, but Jarrod was enraged as well, younger and faster. "Give me that!" Father moved again, but Jarrod swung, bringing the crop hard across his legs, and Father dropped to one knee. "I swear to God, boy," Father rasped, "When I get you I'll beat you bloody!"

"You'll beat me too? Like Nick? You'll beat him, you'll beat me – and Gene as well? That's your answer to everything? What about Audra? Maybe she's talking to her doll too loud! Will you beat that out of her too?"

But now Father said nothing in reply, just lay on the stable floor, his arm splayed over a bale of hay, his expression dazed. It was only then that Jarrod looked at the crop in his own hands and realized he'd struck the old man again, four or five times at least, wild strikes across the legs, back – and the huge red welt across his father's neck told Jarrod he'd done even more than that. 

What _had_ he done?

_I did what had to be done._

Jarrod sucked in air and tried to quiet his breathing. His head spun, and he dropped wearily onto a bale and ran a hand over his face. Now that it was over a strange calm had come over him. He leaned down, his face inches from his father's, and his voice was cold, as icy cold as ever Tom Barkley's was. "You lay a hand on any one of us again, and I swear, I swear to God, Father, I will strike you dead." Father said nothing, just stared at him, his mouth agape, his breath ragged.

He put an arm around Nick, who was staring slack-jawed at him. Nick could stand, all right, though his back clearly pained him. They walked out of the barn, Nick limping, leaning on him. "Jarrod, you—"

"Shut up, Nick." Jarrod tossed the riding crop into the woodpile. Better to burn it. "Just…shut up."

"Yeah," Nick said, but he was still staring at his brother. "Sure, Jarrod. Sure."

* * *

_August 14, 1864_

"'He only is my rock and my salvation: he is my defense; I shall not be moved. In God is my salvation and my glory: the rock of my strength, and my refuge, is in God. Trust in him at all times; ye people, pour out your heart before him: God is a refuge for us.'"

"Give it a rest, Preacher." 

The ragged soldier raised his shredded Bible to his lips and looked heavenward. "Praise be to Jesus, boys, praise be. You must be saved, fellows, or the Devil himself will burn your innards for kindling, and—"

"I said get the hell away!" Carson put out a beefy hand, catching the man in the side. "Go preach somewhere else. Ain't doin' us no good."

"Yeah," muttered Vaughn. "We're already in hell."

"Damned souls." The man with the Bible sighed mournfully and pointed a dirty finger at Carson. "You. I see what you do. God sees what you do. You're the most lost of all, Carson."

"Get out of here, you goddam Jonah!" Carson raised a stick as a threat and Preacher shuffled away.

Jarrod watched as Preacher's slight figure disappeared into the gathering darkness. The man seemed more ghost than a Union soldier. "Is Preacher…is he really a minister?"

Carson tossed the stick on the fire and settled on the ground. "Nope. He ain't no gospel sharp, just lowly cannon fodder like you'n me, boy."

"He was at Chicamauga," said Barney McKnight. "Part o' Negley's bunch."

"Negley got 'em all killed dead." Carson scratched at a scab. "Son of a bitch should never have got a commission. All dead, 'cept for Preacher. Guess that's how he got religion. Won't do him much good, though. Like Vaughn says, we're already in hell."

Jarrod looked around the stockade yard, at soldiers whose once proud blue uniforms had shredded to rags, men with sunken eyes, faces blackened from the pitch pine smoke, and some of them – his eyes flashed to Barney, almost too weak to stand now, and to Toby's bound leg – already in the grip of disease. Many sick with Virginia Quick Step, too weak to move and lying in their own filth. Vaughn's rasping cough was a sure sign of consumption; Jarrod doubted whether he or Barney would make it into autumn. In the sweltering August heat the stench of sickness filled the air with fetid, sweet corruption. With the unimaginable filth and the scent of death, Camp Sumter at Andersonville was hell indeed. He rubbed a hand across his stinging eyes.

Toby's hand was on his shoulder. "You got any family, boy?"

Good old Toby, always there to pull him back from dark thoughts. Jarrod poked the ashes of the fire with a stick. "Sure do. Lots of them." Poke, poke, poke went the stick. The fire was out but embers still smoldered down deep. "A mother, brothers and a sister."

"You got a pa?"

Jarrod threw the stick into the embers. "I have one."

"Sounds like too many to me," growled Carson. "Never much liked my kin. Couldn't wait to get away from 'em."

"Hey." Across the fire pit Barney cracked a weak grin. "She pretty, your sister?"

"She's just a little girl."

"I like 'em young!" Vaughn leered and coughed, a liquid sucking sound. Jarrod's stomach rolled. The thought of Audra in the hands of men like these!

"That's not what I hear," snorted Carson. "What about them creaky New York harlots you keep on about?" He nudged Jarrod. "Not that he'd know the difference between a woman and an Indian chief, him bein' here all this time." 

"You'd better watch out, Barkley." Addison Rowley had sauntered unnoticed up to their little group. "Boy like you might start to look good to old Vaughn here."

"Shut up, Addie." Vaughn rolled the whittled toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, showing his stained teeth. "I ain't no invert."

"Yeah? Here so long, no woman to look at – How long've you been here, anyway?"

"Too long," Vaughn grunted. "And I'll be here till I die." He coughed again. "How long _you_ been here, Carson? You was here when I came, and that's…" He paused, his face clouding. "Damn. I don't even remember how long I've been here." 

"Hey, Carson." Barney cast a weary glance his way. "How many of us you figure you've seen carted off to the bone yard?"

"I'll see you there, kid."

"Look at you, Carson – why, you're the picture of health!" Rowley poked him in the ribs. "How come, when we're all starving to death?"

"Why, I dunno, Addie. Just prayer and clean living, I guess."

Rowley and Carson burst out laughing. Jarrod felt sick. 

"How many brothers you got, Jarrod?"

Toby had changed the subject yet again, and Jarrod was relieved to turn his back on the others. "Two. Nick, he's quite the rascal – _and they all think he's the hothead, yet I'm the one who took off and ran away_ – "and Eugene. He's still a boy."

Carson snorted. "Not all growed up like you, eh?"

Jarrod straightened his spine. "I'm old enough to fight." 

"Ooh, watch out, he's got you there. Boy's a killer, don't ya know?"

Rowley spat into the fire. "Huh. That doesn't take much. Easy to kill a man." Without further comment he walked away toward Sweetwater Creek, the foul stream that split the camp in two. 

_No it's not_ , Jarrod thought, as he watched Addison Rowley slouch across the crowded yard. It was hard as hell to kill a man. It was nothing like killing a wolf stalking the herd, or shooting a deer for dinner. Setting out to kill a human being was… It _was_ hell itself, and he knew that for certain even though he'd only had one day of real war. One day of fighting, that was all, after what'd seemed weeks of marching. Woods, another hill, a pasture, and then there he was, in the midst of it. 

Jarrod remembered the Confederate soldier that he'd sighted through his rifle, the care-worn, grizzled face; surely this was someone dangerous, someone with a rifle of his own with which he meant to kill Yankees. Here was the enemy, up close and in range. And now the enemy was turning, raising his weapon toward Union ranks. _Do it. Do what needs to be done…_ He'd held his breath, his finger tightening, but doubt clouded his mind as the gun went off.

…And then there'd been nothing, just red and black in his eyes and a numbing pain as a rifle butt came down on the back of his head. Impossible now to remember if he'd fired after all. Had he pulled the trigger, killed the enemy? 

No; more likely his hesitation had not just cost him his freedom, but probably the lives of some of his fellows. Maybe his entire platoon was dead, save for him. He hadn't seen any of his friends here at the camp, had he? Maybe he was like Preacher. Maybe he was bad luck too.

"How old are you, kid?" Barney asked. Barney himself wasn't more than twenty-five, Jarrod knew, though his haggard face made him look like an old man.

"Seventeen, last month."

Two Grey Backs were passing and paused, one casually leveling his gun at the small circle of blue-clad soldiers. The taller one yawned as he looked in Jarrod's direction, revealing missing teeth. "All of seventeen, huh? Oh, well, that do make a difference, don't it, Buck?"

The other guard, (indistinguishable from his comrade in their filthy grey uniforms, both dusty and foul smelling) made a sound, a hollow phlegm-filled rattle not unlike Vaughn's cough. "They all the same to me. Ripe for killin'. Don't matter how old they be." He spat, his spittle hitting Vaughn's foot. Vaughn tensed, made as if to rise, but the Confederate rifle shifted until it sighted between Vaughn's eyes. Jarrod held his breath.

"You wanna fight me, bluebelly?" rasped the one called Buck, the one with the gun. "You wanna stand up and hit me?"

Vaughn twitched. 

"Don't do it, Vaughn." Toby spoke softly, his voice even. 

A long moment passed. And then the other guard laughed, and pulled out a flask to take a long swallow. The image of a Confederate flag stood out in relief against the scratched metal. "Listen to him, bluebelly. My friend here's in the mood to shoot somebody, so you stand up and he'll shoot your Yankee ass right through the stockade!" The other guard did not laugh. "Come on Bucky. Supper time."

Slowly the rifle lifted. The two sauntered away.

"I could use some supper," Carson groused. He stood with a grunt, brushing himself off as if that would remove the filth ingrained in his uniform. "Nothin' but cornmeal again. Why don't those Secesh eat real food? Shit."

"I hear they're down to hardtack themselves," said Barney.

Vaughn opened an eye and cast it in Carson's direction. "Where you off to?"

"Taking a walk." He stalked off, in the same general direction as the Reb guards. "Maybe I can scrounge up some dinner."

Jarrod's stomach growled, something it rarely did any more, shrunken by starvation as it was. The others laughed, except Toby, who lay back in the dirt.

"Don't talk about food," Toby said weakly. "I ain't feelin' so good."

"Come on," Jarrod said, rising. He leaned over to help Toby stand, but the man was so weak he could only manage to rise to his knees. His bandaged stump stuck in the dirt and he moaned but cut off the sound by biting his lip. "Sorry. Sorry, Toby. Come on."

Dark had fallen, though it was far too early for moonrise. The light flickering from the prisoners' small fires provided the only illumination – except, of course, the brightly lighted guard towers, the "Pigeon Roosts." Toby's weight almost completely on him, Jarrod staggered across the darkened ground towards their dugout lean-to. Toby was nearly a dead weight; it was clear from how he flinched at each step that the pain was unbearable tonight.

Jarrod pushed aside the blanket and slowly lowered his burden onto the straw bed. Toby grunted once as Jarrod straightened his damaged leg. 

"Toby…" Jarrod sat back on his heels, unsure of what to do. Should he go looking for a doctor, one of his fellow prisoners familiar with wounds? Or maybe one of the less brutal guards would help him find a Reb doctor, a real one, who might have medicine and fresh bandages. But that was nigh onto impossible, and anyway Toby was shaking his head. "I know what you're thinkin', boy. Ain't no doctor gonna do me good anymore."

"Come on, Toby. It's not that bad." Lying to Toby was hard. 

"I can't take it any more. The pain – my leg…I know I'm done."

"Toby, hush, you've got to hang on—"

"My nose works fine. They already took my foot, but I can smell the rot in my leg. I know it, Jarrod, and the rats know. You've got to help me. I don't want the rats to eat me, Jarrod. They're close boy, they're close. You got to promise me."

"Toby—" He couldn't promise that. Jarrod knew what Toby wanted, and there was no way on God's earth he could agree to it, to end his friend's life to spare him pain. "I can't do—" There was a sudden gunshot outside, close by, and then a swell of loud voices. "What was that?"

"Don't go, Jarrod. Can't be good news."

"I'll be right back." Leaving Toby, Jarrod pushed through the flap and climbed outside. Men were shouting, some pointing in the direction of the closest roost.

Vaughn was on his feet, too, and Jarrod touched his arm. "What is it?"

"Don't know."

"Man went over the deadline," someone shouted as he ran by. "Damn Reb shot him."

"Who was it?"

"Dunno."

A cluster of Union soldiers rushed by them. John Ransom, one of the Michigan boys, was with them, and he paused, out of breath. "Damn it. Damn it to hell."

"What happened?"

"Right there, right by the guard tower. They shot Preacher."

"Preacher?" The blood drained from Jarrod's face. "But…he wouldn't try to escape!"

Ransom shook his head. "Didn't. Gabe Carson says he dropped his Bible over the deadline and was reaching for it when the guard shot him." 

"That don't make no sense," Vaughn growled. "He holds onto that thing like it's his baby. He wouldn't—"

"Maybe somebody got fed up with his sermons and threw it there." Once again Addison Rowley had appeared unexpectedly, melting out of the crowd. His tone was flippant as always, but now his face was contorted into a grimace. "Maybe the Rebs wanted a little fun and somebody obliged them. Wouldn't be the first time one prisoner sold out another." 

Vaughn grabbed Rowley's sleeve. "What're you sayin'? Somebody done this on purpose? To Preacher?"

"I'm not saying anything." Rowley threw off Vaughn's hand. "And you'd best not either. There're ears everywhere, and you know it."

"What'd'you mean?" Jarrod came up between them. "Rowley. What are you talking about?" But Rowley snarled and pulled away, and disappeared once again into the throng.

John Ransom gestured to Jarrod, and the two drew back into the shadows, followed by Vaughn. "You haven't been here all that long, Barkley. Be careful. You ask too many questions, maybe next time it's you gets pushed over the deadline."

""Listen to him, boy." Vaughn's eyes were black holes in his filthy face, his voice hollow. "You heard about the Raiders, right? Them that steals from their own side, takes our food and such?" Jarrod nodded. "Well, sometimes it's not just food and clothes they take. Sometimes they say a word or two in Johnny Reb's ear, about who's thinkin' of escaping, or who's hoarding food – sometimes they even rat out their fellow Raiders for food or favors from the Grey Backs. And sometimes they've got a grudge and they give the Rebs a chance to do some target shootin', if you know what I mean."

"Good God." Jarrod stared at him, aghast. "Do you think someone—"

"I don't think," Vaughn said. "Don't you think on it too much, neither." 

Hey." Carson lurched over to them from out of the crowd. "You all see that? Man, that was some show. Even the Rebs are stirred up. Colonel Wirz even came out of his headquarters, fit to be tied that something was happening he hadn't ordered. You shoulda seen it – old Chicken Guts was nigh onto havin' a conniption fit."

"Yeah, well, I hope he chokes on it." Vaughn coughed and lumbered over to the dying fire, where he crumpled onto the ground with a groan. Next to him Barney didn't even stir. Jarrod wondered if the man were still alive. "Hell of a thing," Vaughn rasped. "Hell of a thing." 

"I'd best be seeing to my boys," Ransom said. He clapped Jarrod on the shoulder and looked him in the eye. "Think on what I said." He said no more, simply walked away, though he cast a glance over his shoulder at Carson as he left.

Carson… Strange, Jarrod thought, as he regarded the man; he almost seemed to be smiling while everyone else was somber or horrified or angry. "Did you see it?"

"Sure did. Preacher just went crazy, that's all. Threw his Good Book over the line and then stepped over it."

"Didn't they give a warning?"

Carson shrugged. "Rebs shoot first and ask after." He laughed, dark and low, and there was the smell of liquor on his breath. Jarrod recoiled, but not because it was the raw odor of the bust head the prisoners distilled; no, this was the smell of bourbon, the same smell that so often was on Father's breath. The familiarity of it shocked him to his core.

But…that didn't make sense. Good bourbon, here at Andersonville, among the prisoners? Carson had been here some time, longer than Vaughn, longer than Barney. No way he'd hold onto such a prize for so long. That meant he'd gotten it here. Carson was watching the crowd as it began to settle and Jarrod regarded him closely. Carson's face was as dirty as everyone else's, but he didn't have that horrible sunken look about him that turned most of the prisoners into shadows of themselves. His uniform, ragged as it was, still fit snugly around his belly, and his belly wasn't concave either, but even slightly fleshy. 

_"Look at you, Carson,"_ Rowley had said, _"– why, you're the picture of health!"_

How _was_ that possible, when the rest of them were slowly starving? "Prayer and clean living," indeed! 

Jarrod took in a long breath. He remembered Preacher pointing an accusatory finger at Carson, saying _I see what you do. God sees what you do._ And Carson walking away after the Reb guards, _"maybe I'll find me some dinner."_ Or maybe it was liquor he found, and maybe it was given by a Reb, and maybe it was in exchange for—

"Why'd you do it?" He spoke before he'd meant to, because the thought could not be contained. _Gabe Carson said Preacher dropped it over the line,_ Ransom had told them, and Ransom was one of the most respected men here. _Gabe Carson said._ "You say Preacher threw his Bible over the line? That's a lie, Carson. A damn lie."

Carson turned slowly towards him. "You say something, Barkley?"

His heart was beating hard; he felt short of breath. It was anger, the same kind he'd felt back home that day in the stables. "Where'd you get the whiskey, Carson?"

Carson reached into his pocket and pulled out a flask, and sure enough, there were the stars and bars etched into the metal. "What, you mean this?" Carson said, a smirk on his lips. "Why, you want some?"

"What did you do, shove Preacher over so the guards had a reason to shoot? Those two were eager for blood, we all saw that, and you saw to it they got their sport, didn't you?"

The light was faint, but there was a glitter in Carson's eyes. "You don't want to be messing with me, boy. You don't know what you're saying." He took one step, two, in Jarrod's direction and Jarrod was forced to step back further into the shadows to avoid being chest to chest with him. The man was bigger than he, but Father had been bigger, too.

"Don't I? I know you're the only man here who's thriving. I'm guessing you have the Rebs to thank for that. You're doing favors for them, aren't you? Maybe it's more than that. You're one of the Raiders. You're stealing from us, passing information to the Confederates. You're slime, Carson, and Preacher knew it. That why you had to kill him?"

Carson made no noise when he attacked, and though Jarrod had been expecting it he still was caught off guard by the man's sheer bulk. Before he could think of what to do Carson had him in a bear grip, forcing the air out of him. He felt his ribs grate together and in a desperate move kicked back into Carson's knee. The thick arms relaxed for just a second and Jarrod slipped out of his grasp. He slid around behind Carson, throwing his arm around his neck, and pulled hard. 

He squeezed, and Carson struggled, clawing and kicking, but Jarrod eluded the blows. He had the advantage now, and even if he was in worse shape than Carson, anger and grit kept him going, squeezing as hard as he could, his own breath now coming in labored grunts. Suddenly he stepped on a stone and slipped, and the two of them fell hard to the ground. The air rushed out of his lungs, but his arm stayed where it was. The fall had taken them backwards, their upper bodies thrust into the lean-to where Toby still lay. Toby sat up, wide-eyed, silent. Jarrod kept squeezing, pulling, no matter how hard Carson clawed at his arm, leaving deep scratches that ran red with blood. 

Now Carson was making a hissing noise, trying to speak maybe, trying to breathe, but he didn't care. Time stretched; his arm was so far past pain now that it was numb. _He_ was numb, and barely breathing himself, but still he held on.

"—rod. Jarrod! Stop!" It was a noise, a voice, Toby's voice; he recognized it, and Toby's hands now were on him, over his clutching arms. "Jarrod," Toby's voice said. "Stop. Stop it. Let go."

The red mist in his eyes began to fade. Jarrod took in a huge rasping breath, but found he couldn't let go, not at first, but finally Toby's hands pulled his own away. He fell back onto the dirty shelter floor, gasping. "Carson. He, I—"

"Quiet, boy." Toby, as always spoke softly, and Jarrod's thundering heart calmed. "Carson's dead. Leave him be."

"Toby." Jarrod sat up. Carson was indeed dead, blue about the lips, his hands curled like a mountain cat's claws. "Jesus. Jesus. I killed him. He killed Preacher, Toby, and he—"

"Be quiet, Jarrod." Toby shifted painfully and looked out the flap. "I heard what you said to him. I reckon it needed to be done. Now do what I tell you. The camp is still in a state so no one'll notice. Take him over near the fence and leave him there. It's dark. Nobody's gonna see, and them that do, well, maybe they'll think a Raider got what was coming."

"Toby, I just, I killed him, Toby."

"You killed a rat." Toby leaned close, his voice gentle. " You listen to me, Jarrod Barkley. You did what you had to do."

* * *

_March 23, 1896_

"'He is our rock, He is our defense; He shall not be moved.' Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Senator Jarrod Barkley!"

The crowd was cheering now, those seated jumping to their feet. Victoria in her straight-backed chair beamed with pride, and Audra clutched her twins and pointed to the podium as Jarrod walked to the lectern. His wife stood slowly, tucking an auburn curl behind her ear and the familiar gesture sent a stab of warmth clear through him. Lovely, wonderful, Jarrod thought, to have his family with him on such an important day. He was moved by the outpouring of affection and approval not only from them, but from the gathering of friends and fellow citizens. Yet...he was mortified by the excesses of the Governor's praise. A "rock," "defense—!" Utterly ridiculous. Calm and measured, the Governor had called him, a paragon of balance, equanimity. Oh yes, always considered the sober son, the one who never went off half-cocked, not like Nick, nor one who angered easily, like Heath. That wasn't his way. A man who always did what needed to be done, indeed—

_I did what needed to be done._

Jarrod looked at his speech, but could not see the words. He took a breath and then folded the paper with the speech he'd worked so hard at to get right and put it in his pocket. His eyes searched again for his family. 

"Thank you. Thank you, everyone. Jim Budd has said some…well, some embarrassing things about me today. He has told you I am a rock, a defender, a champion of justice, and likens me to a Man far greater than I could ever hope to be. But I am not that person, that paragon he describes. I've done things... I may not have always served the law as you imagine. Much has been made of my nature; the Governor tells you I never went off half-cocked, never did anything in anger. Those things are…well, they're not true."

In the audience Victoria stirred, small frown between her eyes. Jarrod smiled at her. "But there is one thing he has said that is true, one thing I cannot deny. I may not always have served the letter of the law with equanimity, measured grace and thoughtfulness. But I am proud to say, be it right or wrong, I have always done what needed to be done."

Jarrod took a breath and looked out over the crowd, his eyes settling again on those he loved. "Let me tell you," he said, "let me tell you about some of those things. Let me tell you who I am."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> The time line of this story depends on when you place the events of "The Big Valley." I've set them around 1880, and Jarrod's age in that year as 33. That would make him 16 in 1863, 17 at Andersonville and 49 as the story begins.
> 
> James Budd was in fact the Democratic Governor of California in 1896, and during his tenure he fought railroad corruption and helped start the first California highway system. As luck has it, he was indeed a resident of Stockton, California, as are the Barkleys, and he studied law there, so it's conceivable he and Jarrod might have known each other rather well. 
> 
> John Ransom, of Michigan, was also real person, as was Barney McKnight, both prisoners at Andersonville whose memoirs informed a great deal of the atmosphere in the Camp Sumter section. Among other things, Ransom wrote, "There is so much filth about the camp that it is terrible trying to live here. The air reeks with nastiness." Said McKnight, "Since the day I was born, I never saw such misery." I hope I've captured at least a fraction of that misery. Ransom survived; McKnight, along with over 12,000 Union soldiers, did not.
> 
> Heinrich "Henry" Wirz was the Swiss-born Confederate commandant of Camp Sumter. After the war he was tried and executed for conspiracy and murder relating to his command of the camp, only one of two Confederates executed for war crimes. The "Raiders" were real, too, a group of prisoners who stole food and valuables from other prisoners. These were eventually rounded up by a second group known as the "Regulators." When captured, the Raiders were tried by the other prisoners and usually found guilty. Punishments varied from being forced to wear ball and chain to, in some cases, execution by hanging. And once in a while, they simply were killed in private by those seeking justice, by those who felt they did what they had to do.
> 
> Jarrod is indeed the calm, refined Barkley, but for this story I've explored his violent side, the side that erupts in such episodes as "Days of Wrath." And as for Jarrod's wife, seen here so briefly, I've left her unnamed on purpose, and given no clues. Please feel free to fill in the details as you wish.


End file.
